"Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear.
I am nothing; I see all."
- Emerson
The months that follow are the beginning of the lasts.
Sam collects them like a dying man collects water. Final moments with Dean. So many of them, all jealously guarded, taken out only at night to replay over and over where no prying eyes can intrude, where all the vulnerability he tries to hide isn't at risk of being exploited.
Last hunts in Kentucky and then Missouri and then Nebraska.
It's an unsaid agreement that they slowly make their way back towards Kansas. Back to the place that hasn't been home to them in most all the years they've been alive. But they'll go there all the same. Because Dean is determined to end it all where it started, even though it's Sam that's been the one who appreciated the irony of coming full circle. Catharsis.
He doesn't anymore.
Dean picks up a girl at a bar, shameless flirt that he is, coy looks and wide smiles and soft touches. Dean strikes out at a bar.
Soon there won't be time. It's a rising chant in Sam's mind, dulling the edges of his perception, the part that he tries to ignore, the one that's becoming more and more difficult to.
He won't see Dean lose it over some girl, one special enough that makes him blind to the rest. Finally settle down, leave the hunting life behind.
Sam won't see Dean's kids. Stubborn brats probably that get away with murder because of green eyes and dimples. He'll never be Uncle Sam. That hurts deep down more than he ever thought it would. Sam hadn't realized just how much he wanted that for Dean, how much he wanted to see it with his own two eyes, until it became reality that he never would.
Life is funny that way. So is death.
Dean wins enough money at pool to keep them holed up in a motel that is clean and warm, a decent part of town for once, with mints on both their pillows that Dean never fails to steal.
Dean loses at pool and washes it down with a bottle of Jack. They sleep in the Impala because all the credit cards are maxed out. Listen to each other breathe.
Dean gets a speeding ticket with something akin to pride.
Dean tinkers beneath the Impala's hood, not even bothering to hide how he's talking to the car. Soothing her when he rubs off a spot of dirt.
Dean flashes his badge of the day, not a trace of uncertainty in his expression. Cops, FBI, CIA, Dean dons them like the kids on the playground do with husband and wife. Playing house.
Dean with shockingly pink skin after he refuses to use the sunblock Sam had bought him, freckles coming out in full force.
Sam's life is nothing more than a countdown, hoarding Dean, never as aware at the passing of time as he is that year. He constantly checks his phone. The watch his wrist has never ticked so loudly. Instead of studying exits like their dad had drilled in their skulls, Sam finds his eyes drawn to the clocks that hang on the walls, the curling pages of calendars.
A future rapidly disappearing and a present that's winding down, so close to being over. Ticking away second by second. Day by day.
The sand is running out, more sinking towards the bottom than what remains on top.
They stop at a diner, nothing special about it. Full of run down tables, scuffs on the floor, tired waitresses, smell of burnt coffee and grease. Dean flirts with the waitress, natural as breathing, paying no attention to the fact that she's old enough to be his grandmother, salt and pepper hair wrapped in a tight bun. She takes their order with the monotony that comes with years of practice, pen flickering over the pad, a grunt here, a yes there. Dean compliments her shoes, gets an amused huff and smirk for his trouble.
Dean orders a burger and fries and two slices of apple pie. It might be a last meal for anyone else except for the fact that it's Dean's default food.
"There's a silver lining to all this after all Sammy." Dean says, mouth purposefully full just to catch Sam's look of disgust. "Don't have to worry about my metabolism slowing down and getting fat like you always promised I would."
Sam's flinch is barely noticeable. Dean's been saying things like that more and more. Like maybe he needs to give voice to his newfound reality, like making offhand comments and underhanded jokes will help him make sense of it all. Like it'll make things easier to swallow.
Sam manages to school his reaction better each time.
Sam take a moment to collect himself before he looks up and smiles. "Hate to break it to you-" he trailed off and aims a meaningful glance down at Dean's stomach.
Dean laughs and throws a fry at Sam. "Jealousy isn't a good color on you Sammy."
The windows of the diner are open, shadows growing on the far wall, sunset turning the white peeling paint a pale pink. Hours now.
They finish their food in silence.
Dean chose a motel literally in the middle of nowhere. He pays extra for the room on the end, even more to make sure the one beside them remains unoccupied. The greasy clerk pockets their last fifty with a sneer and some cheap underhanded comment. Sam wants to punch him, spends a few seconds daydreaming about how good it would feel to break his already crooked nose.
Dean just smirks and tosses the key up and down as they make their way through the parking lot, whistling like it's any other night. Like it's not the last night.
It's for Sam's own benefit, he knows but he still can't bring himself to say a word. His lips have been sewn shut just as surely as if threaded through.
His throat is bone dry and his hands haven't stopped shaking since he climbed out from the car. The Impala gleamed in the parking lot and Sam couldn't help but stare as Dean climbed out, watched from the corner of his eye as Dean ran his hand over the hood, a farewell gesture.
The room is a copy to every once that's come before. Questionably stained carpet, bathroom with one light flickering, windows lined with dead bugs. Two beds. Dean takes the one closest to the door. For the last time.
There won't be a need for two soon. Tomorrow. Minutes now, an hour if they're lucky.
That echoing chant. Running out of time. Everything in its last stages, wrapping up. Sand almost gone, nothing more than a thin dusting pulled downwards.
Sam imagines the howl of hellhounds, imagines how sharp the claws must be, how long and jagged the teeth. It helps. His shaking lessens, just enough to keep pretending. Dean tosses his bag on the bed. Skips the beer and goes straight for the whiskey.
When he notices Sam's raised eyebrows, he chuckles. "Plannin on getting drunk off my ass." He takes a chug, eyes watering from the bite of alcohol. "Might help." He offers the bottle to Sam. He doesn't ask who it's suppose to help. Probably the both of them. Leave it up to Dean to be thinking of Sam in a time like this.
Sam sinks onto his own bed, feet planted on the floor, mirroring Dean with his palms pressed against the bed.
Sam knows. This is it. No time left. No hope for anything else, no wishing for miracles or saviors. Just him and Dean like always.
The sandglass in his mind is running empty.
A few more minutes and it'll be gone.